


The Psychology of Totalism

by RicePaper_Fox



Category: Weiß Kreuz
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Coming of Age, Cults, Drug Use, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-Slash, Psychic Abilities, References to Old Technology, Thought Reform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-08-23
Packaged: 2018-06-01 11:32:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6516829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RicePaper_Fox/pseuds/RicePaper_Fox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It's how I end up sleeping in the back of a stolen car with a kitchen knife on the floor within easy reach. I know that there are Society members sent to retrieve me, but I don't know how aggressive they can become when the Prophet tells them that the future is threatened. And I know that I'm not going back there. I don't care if I have to kill them and dump the bodies."</p><p>Or, a "Rosenkreuz? What Rosenkreuz?" fic</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> l was thinking about the early days of WK fanfiction, before people knew what Rosenkreuz was (or of they did, they didn't care). They were kinda insane, but also kinda wonderful, and I missed them. And the existence of Rosenkreuz within canon is starting to feel restricting. Thus, I salvaged any unrelated idea I had, applied my limited spy thriller skills, and this insanity was born. I'm hoping the cram everything into seven chapters. The title is taken from work by Robert Jay Lifton.
> 
> On a somewhat unrelated note, in my research I came across the Aum Shinrikyo/Aleph Doomsday cult, and any WK fan should glance at it. Their doctrine is based on warped Tibetan Buddhism, and they had predicted the world would end in 1997. Sound familiar?

The hotel is as cheap as they come. The walls are paper thin, and on one side I can hear the bed knocking into the wall to the accompaniment of loud moans, and on the other side cartoon and kids shrieking with laughter. It's a disconcerting combination of sounds. Every now and then, the light leaking in from around the door dims as someone walks past, but I've stopped paying attention to it. I have time.

Instead, I'm laying on my side on the bed, an old wristwatch inches from my face. My heart pounds as I watches the seconds tick by. Seventeen years old, and I'll be eighteen in three...two...one. With a sigh of relief, I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling. I'm legally an adult, which means that I can't be forced back home, at least not by the police.

I turn on the television and flip through the stations—there are only a few—until I settle on some midnight televangelist. I spend a second fiddling with the antenna, then turn it up until the sounds in the other rooms are blocked out. The man is screaming at my about Hell and damnation, but it's a familiar cadence that I can more or less block out. I then dig through my bag until I finds the syringe with my one safe needle.

This is one of the things I've been strictly forbidden from doing, and not just because opiates can kill me. It messes with my Vision, and if anyone from the Society catches up to me while I'm strung out, it could mean anything from a beating to a week without meals. It's worth the risk, though, if I can get ahead of them.

Carefully, I insert the needle between my toes, my breath catching at the pain. This is the last of my stash, and I'm hoping to God it'll work, that I'll get something useful out of it. I drop the syringe on the nightstand, and lay back on the bed, listening to the rhythm of the voice on the TV as the euphoria washes over me.

Then my Vision opens up, like the widening of a black hole, and I allow himself to sink in. There's nothing to see, no voices or sights or smells, the way there is when my Vision is unaided. Instead, the room comes into sharp focus, and with the water stains and mold spots comes Knowledge.

\- - -

I wake to the sound of pounding on the door.

“Hey, kid! You got five minutes to get out or pay for another night!”

I squint down at the watch, still next to me on the bed, and curse. I should have been out of here an hour ago. I shove my few possessions back into my bag, pull on a pair of dirty socks and my worn out sneakers, grab the set of keys I stole from my mother's dresser.

When I open the door, the manager is glaring at me. I avoid the man's face and brush past him and out to the old Ford in the parking lot. It takes a couple tries to get the key in the lock, and as I turn to pull out, I see that someone has scrawled CLEAN ME in the back window. The cleared area in the letters makes it easier to back out.

It doesn't matter yet that I don't know if I'm heading the right direction. There's only one road, and I'm not going back the way I came. I just hope I get to a gas station before the half tank I have runs out. I'm driving north through West Virginia and I know that sooner or later I'll have to find a road map so that I can figure out where I'm going. It would be nice to get out of Appalachia. 

After a while of driving and not seeing much of anyone, I start to allow myself to enjoy the ride a little. The Ford can't pick up any radio stations, but it's a crisp autumn day and the sun is out, so I crank open the window and lean my head out. It's a good thing there aren't any turns, because I can't read the signs very well, anyway. Driving through towns, I either have to drive slow to see them or hit the breaks hard to avoid missing turns.

My mother would be angry that I knew how to drive at all. After all, what need did I have to leave the compound at all?

I drive her out of my head. Just thinking about my mother makes me angry, vengeful, and joyous in turns, and I don't feel safe with any emotions at all, at the moment.

Finally, I reach a town, which consists mostly of a single intersection and the scattering of houses. I take the opportunity to purchase a map and fill the gas tank with the little money I have left. I have an address, located in Grove City, on a crumpled envelope I stole years ago, back when I first thought of running away. It takes some time to figure out, first how to read and then the route I could take. I briefly consider going to I-79, but throw the idea out; my eyesight makes it a big risk, even if it is faster and easier on gas.

It ends up taking me the better part of the day to reach Grove City, and once I do I have to stop three or four times to ask for directions. Finally, though, I find myself pulling up in front of a house with gray siding a disheveled lawn. Not for the first time, I doubt my own Sight, but I get out anyway.

“Can I help you?” I look to the side to see a woman sitting on the porch of the next house, a fat toddler running on the lawn in front of her.

“I'm looking for the Shelleys,” I say. “This was the address I had.”

“They haven't lived here for a few months now,” the woman says. “Said they were going to stay with friends in Newark for a while, although they call to check in every now and again. I can give them a call, if you like. What's your name?”

“They won't know me,” I say. “But you can tell them that Martha is my mother.”

“Martha?”

“Yeah. Their daughter, Martha.”

She gives me a funny look. “They don't have a daughter named Martha,” she says. “I've heard them say something about an Emma. You sure you have the right people?”

I'm sure. It happens occasionally that someone will change their names upon joining the Society. However, I don't know how to tell the woman this, and so I look around for a few minutes as if confused, then go to sit in my car. Finally, I decide to drive around the block, and I find a park to leave the car in before walking back toward the house. The woman is gone when I turn onto the street, and the porch on the gray house is secluded enough that I think I can jimmy the lock without anyone noticing.

The inside of the house is covered in a layer of dust, and it looks like the residents had just picked up and left; the table has mail from three months ago, and the fridge is covered in pictures and coupons, as well as a shopping list. I wander into a back bathroom and open the cupboards. Toothbrushes, toothpaste, medicine. 

There's a case on the counter, and inside a pair of beat up glasses. I peer through them, and while I suspect they aren't quite strong enough for me, they help. I've known for quite a while now that I need glasses, but the Prophet never allowed me to have any, saying they would only bring harm. I don't know if it's true, but I'm past caring. It takes a few moments for my sight to adjust, and I can already feel the strain behind my eyes lessening. I wipe the grime off the mirror—there's more than I initially realized—and for perhaps the first time in my life, I get a clear look at my own face. It's a little jarring.

Upstairs are two bedrooms, both of them kept immaculate. The one I suppose belonged to my grandparents is clean and white, with bookcases lining the walls, where medical journals sit next to treatises on conspiracy and psychic mysticism. The other room had most likely belonged to my mother. It's surprisingly feminine, with its pink bedding. There's a vanity covered in bright colored toys and pictures of friends. There's photo of my mother with two friends, and the girl in the picture is barely recognizable as the woman I just left, with her pudgy face, small dress, big plastic jewelry. I pocket the photo.

Back downstairs, I start digging through papers, letters, photos, trying to find any clue as to where they are, anything that might mention Newark. I'm so focused on that name, I almost miss the letter dated October 31, 1989.

It's October 29.

The address is not Newark, but rather New York, and there's a map scribbled on the back of the last page. Other than that, it just seems like a regular letter to a friend. I want to dismiss it as a fluke, but I can't stop the hope that maybe, just maybe, my grandparents—or even just one of them—are like me. They could have known months ahead of time that I was coming and left this knowing I'd look.

Or maybe they didn't know I exist at all, and had left this in the vain hope that their daughter would return to them. Either way, it's something, and they're my best chance of getting somewhere better.

I go back upstairs to the first bedroom and shake the dust off the bedding. As I sit down and look at the books, it occurs to me that I could be making a big mistake. It's true that they want their daughter back. Every now and then, they send letters to her, which she reads aloud to the congregation and then publicly burns. And while it's true that they may know that I'm coming, they may not. 

Either way, acceptance may not come easy, especially since I bear almost no resemblance to the short, chubby girl in the picture. Now I find myself searching the photo again for something to tie me to her. Even in this picture, where she's clearly happier, she is far from pretty, with her dull brown hair and ill-defined facial structure. It's no wonder she got sucked in. Under other circumstances, I'd consider myself lucky; most people tend to find me trustworthy based solely on the fact that I'm handsome. I suspect that my grandparents will look at me and see the face of a criminal and a conman. But, I think, I have my mother's eyes, which must count for something.

The Prophet's eyes, as I recall, are black.

With a sigh, I look out the window and consider my next move. The light is fading, and I don't want to turn on any lamps, lest they draw attention. I'm half a day ahead of the Society, but I can't keep using up gas without planning a route. They know I'm here, though. They probably could have guessed without the Prophet's Sight.

I bundle the duvet and a pillow from the bed, but pause on my way out the door. On a whim, I grab a kitchen knife from the drawer and wrap it up in a hand towel; knives are useful, and not just for defending myself with. In the garage, I find a gas can with a couple gallons in it. 

I'm sure I make a sight, walking back to the park with bedding and a gas tank, and at one point an old lady looks out her front door and eyes me suspiciously. I give her a smile and a wave, as if I belong there. She goes back in, and I pick up my pace, hoping that she's not calling the cops.

The Ford doesn't make the best place to sleep, but I figure it's better than the house. And hopefully I can get a few hours of sleep before I need to move on.

\- - - 

As far as the Society of Higher Enlightenment is concerned, I'm highly educated, and that isn't saying much. The only reason I know the theory of evolution is because the Prophet is able to make it fit into his teachings. I found out that this was weird at the age of ten, during a grocery shopping trip with my mother, during which no one would talk to us if they didn't have to.

What I was taught, though, was “the art of persuasion.” How to play the long game when it came to manipulating people, how to look and act and dress in accordance to others expectations, what people do and don't trust.

In order for people to listen to you, they first have to trust you.

The fact is, I'm supposed to be the Prophet's successor. The Society is in its second generation now. My mother was an early follower of his, and out of the children of seven women, I'm the only one who is capable of seeing the future. So he started to groom me. And while I started to show early signs of being a disappointment, I remain their most valuable member below the Prophet himself. Maybe if life within the compound wasn't so terrible, I wouldn't have started to question the Society.

Maybe, if he hadn't tried exorcise me when I was six, I wouldn't have started to realize how terrible that life is. I didn't change who I am, I just learned not to talk about the man I'm going to spend my life with.

It's how I end up sleeping in the back of a stolen car with a kitchen knife on the floor within easy reach. I know that there are Society members sent to retrieve me, but I don't know how aggressive they can become when the Prophet tells them that the future is threatened. And I know that I'm not going back there. I don't care if I have to kill them and dump the bodies.

I'm trying to cultivate an attitude of not caring what happens to them. My mother was able to convince herself that her past doesn't matter any more. That by not acknowledging it, it doesn't exist. I have a feeling this isn't going to work. It didn't for her, as evidenced by the fact that I am running to her parents.

If I could burn down the whole compound with everyone inside it, I would. It isn't a casual wish, it's something I've seriously considered doing before. It's too messy, with too many questions that would be asked. The Society isn't liked within the community, but there's a reason they haven't been shut down. It's the reason I've decided to take a chance on my grandparents; if I go to outside family and express a fear of the Society, then police can get involved. The Prophet knows this, and the last thing he wants is the government digging around.

It's a cheap move, and I don't want the government poking around my business, either. But I need the opportunity to establish something for myself.

The opiate withdrawal is starting to take effect, and I rub my legs, hoping to relieve some of the ache. It's going to be rough going tomorrow, and I consider simply finding somewhere to hide out until the worst of the symptoms are gone. Instead, I burrow deeper and hope that I can get myself to sleep. I can think about it in the morning.


	2. Chapter 2

Alarms start going off in my head when I see the neighborhood that my grandparents, Francis and Ingrid Shelley, live in. I had known they were fairly wealthy, but their house is totally incongruous with the middle-class home in Pennsylvania. The house in New York, which doesn't belong to a friend, sits on top of a rise overlooking the Hudson, and is far too big for just two people. I spend a long time lingering in the road in front, pacing and looking across the expansive lawn, knowing that I need to make a decision.

 

I know I'm starting to look suspicious. It's Halloween and soon kids will be out on the streets, and I'm sure their parents will be on the lookout.

 

I made up my mind a week ago, and I decide I'm going to stick to it. As much as I was taught to play the long game, and hate working off the cuff like this, I don't know where else to go. Anyway, I just made what was the longest drive anyone has ever done while ill, taking two days to cross Pennsylvania and New York because I had to stop so often to be sick in one way or another. I think that, perhaps for the first time in my life, I'll sleep the entire night, regardless of where I am.

 

Even once on the porch, it takes me nearly an entire minute to ring the bell. Before I've even taken my hand off the button, the door is opened by a young woman in some sort of maid costume.

 

“Are you the grandson?”

 

I'm slightly taken aback. “What?”

 

She unlocks the screen and holds it open. “Come on.”

 

“Are you a relative?” I ask doubtfully, entering the house.

 

“I'm Kate. I'm just here to help pass out candy.” She's looking at me with equal suspicion, but underneath I can see definite interest. It's a combination I've been on the receiving end of more than once in my life. “They said you'd be here today.”

 

I freeze for a moment. After a second, I continue more slowly. The Prophet says things like that all the time. _I've been expecting you_. It shouldn't scare me, considering not only how true it could be as well the fact that I have the same ability. Somehow, despite his failures to hold my faith, I still have that fear conditioned into me.

 

The house is decorated all through, and as I pass an artfully laid tray of food, I wonder again what I'm getting myself into. Kate leads me into a study and tells me that Francis will be right with me. The room itself feels stuffy, with furniture that looks barely used and paintings of generic, dull landscapes on the walls. There isn't much that's personal in here.

 

I consider for a moment that this is a 'yes.' It's something that you want people to be in the habit of saying, and this little thing, just agreeing to talk to me, is an important one. I look outside at the fading light, and across the way I can see lights coming on and a neighbor wearing a witch costume and putting candles in pumpkins.

 

“Did you ever go trick-or-treating as a kid?”

 

I turn to look at my grandfather for the first time. He's older than in any of the pictures that I saw in Grove City, and I wonder how long it's been since they'd taken a photo opportunity.

 

“I was never allowed. The Prophet always said that Halloween should be taken seriously. Mystic forces. Honoring pagan ancestors.”

 

“The Prophet?” Francis looks confused for a moment. “You mean your father.”

 

It's a shock to hear the Prophet referred to like that. For all that he is biologically my father, it's never felt like it. It occurs to me that I've never thought of him as anything but a religious figurehead, even after I stopped believing in him.

 

I'm not how to express this, so I just say, “Yeah.”

 

Francis nods, as if in acceptance. “A couple men came looking for you yesterday afternoon. They said you had been to the old house. They _said_ that they didn't want to bother the police over adolescent rebelliousness.”

 

It certainly explains Kate's comment about them expecting me. I wonder again about the letter I had found with today's date. It could have simply been an error.

 

“They don't want to bother with the police because I'm legally an adult,” I say, stiffly. “I'm not some teenage runaway.”

 

“Why did they come after you, then?” Francis asks.

 

I'm not too keen on letting anyone know about my abilities yet. It's the kind of thing you let someone in on slowly, or else send them running. If you let them know, at all. I just left a system in which a man was worshiped for his psychic abilities, and I don't want to enter another.

 

After a moment of consideration, I say, “A few years ago, he let me in on the con. Eventually, he'll need someone to take over, and I was the best candidate.”

 

“Why leave?”

 

“Why stay?” At Francis' frown, I say, “He's convinced himself that his miserable life there is worth the power he wields over others. I disagreed. Now he has a disillusioned son who has all his secrets.”

 

Francis gives a sigh and sits down. “Truthfully, Brad, your grandmother and I weren't going to give you anything.”

 

Which could explain why I was so unsure of my decisions.

 

“Is there a 'but' in there?” I ask.

 

He nods. “But we're willing to make a trade for something we want.”

 

Trades are good. I can do trades, even better than running and asking for help. I nod.

 

“We will allow you to stay here for a few days,” Francis says. “But in exchange, you get your mother over here. Get her to talk to us.”

 

“A week,” I say. “A full week. Not a 'Monday to Friday' week.”

 

I can tell by his face that it's not a deal that either one of us is happy with. At the same time, it's fair, and he knows it. He may not want me there at all, but I don't want to have any contact with the Society at all, let alone my mother. There is an upside, though, is that I have a full week of contact with them, which gives me an opportunity to gain more.

 

After a while, Francis nods again. “Alright. A week, and then you're out. If you'll excuse me, we are hosting a party, and my guests should be arriving. We have a room made up for you upstairs at the end of the hall on the right.”

 

“Thank you,” I say.

 

He turns to leave, then pauses and turns back. “Those glasses...”

 

“Are yours,” I say. “I don't have my own, and I found these at the old house.”

 

He gives me a funny look, but says nothing.

 

\- - -

 

I call the Society the next morning from the kitchen, my grandparents staring intently at me as I put the phone on speaker. It's a little unnerving, and I tug on the phone cord and raise an eyebrow at them. After a few minutes of the phone being passed around on the other end, my mother picks up.

 

“Brad?” She sounds desperate.

 

“I need you to come to New York,” I say.

 

“New York?” Then, as if she doesn't know, she asks, “Where are you?”

 

“I'm at your parents' house in Irvington.”

 

“Oh, Brad,” she says, sounding like I broke her heart. Maybe I did.

 

I hear some talk in the background, and the voice of the Prophet—my father—saying that he _told_ her that this was going to happen. He probably did, too.

 

“I don't think that's a good idea,” she says, finally. “And neither does the Prophet.”

 

I'm sure he doesn't.

 

I try to put on a desperate teenager voice. “Please. Mom.”

 

Francis and Ingrid exchange an wry look, and I know that I haven't fooled them for a second. My mother hesitates though. I know how to push her buttons, and I know that, after all this time, Francis and Ingrid don't care how they get to see their daughter again. There's more muffled talking, and I'm sure that she's holding the phone against her body, as if I can't hear what they're saying by doing so.

 

“He'll forgive you, you know,” she tells me. “All you need to do is come home. You know the world isn't safe for you. A person with your Sight needs special support and guidance.”

 

I close my eyes in exasperation at the mention of my Sight, and when I open them I catch the end of a surprised look shared between my grandparents. Ingrid looks like she wants to say something, then thinks better of within my mother's hearing. The cat's apparently out of the bag. For some reason I feel relieved.

 

“I'll consider coming back with you,” I finally lie. “But only if _you_ come pick me up. I'd feel safer that way.”

 

I can tell by the silence on the other end that I've just struck gold. They want me back, and if they have the opportunity to do it without too much of a fuss, they'll take it.

 

“Alright,” she says. “I'll be up there on Friday.”

 

I hear the phone click on the other end, and look at Francis and Ingrid. None of us say anything for a few minutes. Francis is the first to speak.

 

“You have your father's knack for manipulation.”

 

“Frank!” Ingrid scolds. Then she turns to me. “Brad, your mother said something about your 'Sight.'”

 

I shrug, but I can feel myself daring her with my eyes. She takes me up on it.

 

“Do you have precognitive abilities?”

 

I've never heard the term before, but I can easily guess what they're talking about. This is not a conversation I want to have, and I find myself casting about for some response. Ingrid is looking at me encouragingly, and it makes me recoil even further.

 

“You know what my mother has been convinced of,” I say. My gaze involuntarily drifts toward the door, as if by staring at it I can escape the situation.

 

"We can talk about this later,” Francis says, and when I turn back to them, I can see the warning look he's giving Ingrid.

 

I am off and up the stairs before Ingrid can respond. I can hear them argue in hushed voices. I stop at the door to my room, listening and debating. I have two sets of instincts warring inside me right now. One is telling me to run, that nothing good ever comes out of anyone knowing what I am. The other one though, which sits in the back of my mind, tells me to wait. I close my eyes and rest my forehead on the door, trying to slow my racing heart, reminding myself that it's that second voice I should be listening to. That's the one that belongs to my Sight.

 

There is a big window at the end of the hall, and I move over to look out into the back of the property. Like everything here, it's pristine and expensive-looking, and seemingly detached from the rest of the world. The compound that the Society lived in was also detached, but that was where the similarities ended. The compound had been a series of buildings within a wall, all of them falling apart, all of them filthy, and all of them messy. I want to curse myself now for wanting more, for thinking I could throw myself on the good graces of strangers.

 

I stop myself, though. It's conditioned thinking, to suppose that it would be better to go back, that I have no place in the real world.

 

"Brad?”

 

I turn to see Ingrid at the end of the hall. For the first time, I really look at her. She is short and a little dumpy, and I can see where my mother gets her looks from. But her eyes show an intelligence that has never been present in my mother. She makes a gesture to the stairs, and I follow her. To my surprise, she leads me out the back door and into the yard.

 

“How much have you been told about us?” she now asks.

 

"Not much that wasn't in your letters,” I say. "I know that Francis is some kind of brain surgeon.”

 

“He is a neurologist," she says. "He doesn't perform surgeries. He and I have spent our lives studying the role the nervous system plays in psychic abilities, though, much like your own.”

 

I feel my steps falter slightly. I spent a good part of the night trying to piece things together on my own, but I wasn't quite ready for that revelation. We reach a bench near the back and Ingrid invites me to take a seat.

 

“I'd like to talk to you for a moment about your mother,” she says.

 

I just look at her, then back at the house. Both of us seem to be going into this blind, and as much as I hate being at a disadvantage in that way, I'm glad I'm not the only one. I just wish that I had known that my mother would bring up my Sight. We sit in silence for a moment, and I can tell Ingrid is trying to choose her words carefully.

 

“She has never been gifted, in any sense of the word,” she slowly says. “Not with brains, and not with beauty. And she didn't inherit our precognition.”

 

I turn my head, but don't look fully at her. I've been back and forth on my suspicions for three days, but it's still a surprise when I hear them confirmed.

 

“That's why we were so surprised when you father, John Crawford, found her,” she continues. “The chances of Francis and I meeting each other were less than one in twenty million. For a third precognitive to show up, though...” She shakes her head as if still in disbelief. “It's not something you can teach. We told her that. But she insisted that he was going to do so. As if he was some sort of...”

 

“...Prophet?” I supply.

 

“...Yes.”

 

“That's why you'll never get her back,” I say. “Because he has promised her something that you won't. And he makes her feel special.”

 

We sit in silence again, and I can feel the truth weighing down on her. It's like, after twenty years, she is finally accepting what has happened, and I wonder if it took me specifically telling her to help her. It's something I can't imagine.

 

“It skips a generation,” she says suddenly.

 

“What does?”

 

“Psychic ability. Francis and I are almost positive of this. You inherited your abilities from us. Even then, there was a one in ten thousand chance you would be born with it. But...you were.”

 

All I can think of to say is, “Huh.”

 

“We want to make you another offer,” she says. “We will provide for you indefinitely. In exchange, we would like you to participate in scientific studies.”

 

“You want to experiment on me?” I look at her doubtfully.

 

“Nothing that extreme,” she says. “It's more like undergoing interviews. And we would like to get some brain scans of a precognitive cycle.”

 

I laugh. “Good luck with that. It can be days between Visions. I'd be living in your machines.”

 

“So you have no control?”

 

“Should I?”

 

“Well,” she says. “You can't gain total control. But it is possible to maintain some degree. We may be able to increase the frequency, and will certainly be able to increase accuracy.”

 

“You don't know how accurate I am,” I say.

 

Ingrid gives me a knowing smile. The thing is, the offer is very tempting. I'm right about six times out of ten, which is a little too close to a fifty-fifty chance. At the same time, agreeing makes me nervous. I know how these things go, agreeing to more and more. I don't know enough about them to trust them. I want to start poking holes in all this, to figure out how my Sight took them by surprise. And then there's the issue of their money, and how anyone who claims to study psychic abilities does so well financially, especially without publicity.

 

“You have the week,” she says, touching my knee. I move away. “Think about it.”

 

\- - -

 

I only brought two sets of clothes with me, and in the couple days before my mother's arrival, Ingrid and Francis buy me a few more. They also have me get an eye exam and they order a pair of prescription glasses that are actually right for me. When I tell them that I had never been allowed any for fear that it would interfere with my Sight, Ingrid loses her temper.

 

“I don't know what kind of bullshit that is,” she snaps. “Precognition relies on your ability to perceive the world around you. If anything, your abilities would only improve with them.”

 

This only leads to more questions about life within the Society, and increasing exasperation on my grandparents' part.

 

“You cannot live on only three or four hours a night,” Francis says, once I tell him about the harsh sleep regimen I've been on. “It impairs your reasoning skills. You need to get at least eight hours. Or at least try.”

 

I've never had so much food or sleep in my life, and my grandparents seem shocked by the fact that I can't seem to finish the meals that they give me. At one point, Francis expresses concern over my lack of appetite, then asks how I got so tall with such a lifestyle. I shrug, unsure of what he's talking about.

 

“Chronic sleep deprivation,” he says. “Combined with poor diet. Both factors have independently been shown to stunt growth.”

 

“I guess I'm just lucky.”

 

The day that my mother is supposed to arrive, I wake up with a sense of foreboding. When I turn to look at the clock, I realize it's only three in the morning, and, like the mornings before, I lay awake for a few hours, trying to get back to sleep. Finally, at around five thirty, I get up and get dressed. I spend the next hour and a half walking around the neighborhood, working on getting my bearings. When I get back to the house, my grandparents are already up and brewing a pot of coffee.

 

“Not to push you,” Francis says. “But have you considered our offer?”

 

“I did,” I say, simply.

 

“And?”

 

“Let me deal with my mother first,” I say.

 

I end up sitting on the front porch for most the morning, only eating on Ingrid's insistence. I only finish about half my breakfast, and spend the rest of the time flipping through one of Francis' medical books. I don't understand any of it, and I end up with a notepad, an enormous dictionary and two more texts in front of me, feeling like I'm trying to break down an impossible puzzle. Perhaps it's the knowledge that what I have barely qualifies as a high school education that keeps me from getting completely frustrated and giving up. Instead, it seems more like a game.

 

It's nearly noon when I hear the crunch of gravel, and I look up to see a taxi pulling up in front of the house. I remember somewhat belatedly that I had stolen the car. My mother pays the driver and turns toward the house and freezes at the sight of me. I can tell that she's trying to decide what to comment on first.

 

“You're wearing glasses,” she says.

 

“It's amazing how much people take their vision for granted,” I say. “And my headaches are almost gone.”

 

She walks up the front steps and moves to sit next to me. She shifts the books and looks at what I'm writing on the notepad, her brow furrowing.

 

“Why are you doing this?” she asks, looking up at me.

 

“Because I got bored waiting for you,” I say.

 

“That's not what I meant,” she snaps. “You're acting out, and I want to understand why.”

 

I sigh and finally give her my complete attention. “Your parents told me that they'd let me stay for a little while if I could get you up here,” I tell her. “I never had any intention of returning.”

 

She looks confused for a moment, as if struggling to process the reality of the situation. I watch her face as the realization sinks in, and she leans back in her seat, looking pained. I don't know whether that comes from losing me or having let the Prophet down, but and it disgusts me.

 

“Just tell me, Brad,” she says. “Where did I go wrong? Were you lacking attention? Was that it?”

 

I'm dumbfounded for a moment. “The thing that was lacking was _logic_ ,” I say incredulously. “You can't raise a precognitive to not ask questions. My whole psyche is built around searching for and putting together pieces of the truth. And the pieces I was given don't add up.”

 

“Is this something your grandfather told you?” She asks, voice full of accusation.

 

“No.” Suddenly I'm very tired of this whole conversation. All I want is for her to leave. “No, this is something I worked out for myself. Sometime between my second night of getting enough sleep and third day of complete, nutritious meals. Being able to think straight does wonders.”

 

“Emma?”

 

Ingrid comes out the front door, followed closely by Francis. I can see my mother stiffen, and I know she's going to protest that her name isn't Emma anymore. I roll my eyes and pack up my stuff.

 

“I'll leave you alone,” I say, then look at my mother. “Have a nice trip back.”

 

As I pass, I share brief a look with Ingrid. She knows that this won't amount to much, but she seems determined to take the chance.

 

Once inside, I allow myself to consider my grandparents' offer seriously for the first time. Yesterday I had asked them about the house, and they said that their benefactors had been very generous. It was that kind of cagey attitude that the Society's recruiter use, and it strikes me as a sign of trouble.

 

I've never considered myself at risk for becoming willingly involved in a cult. I was taught what to look for when approaching others to lure them in, and so when I left I considered myself totally capable of avoiding such a situation. Now I'm beginning to wonder. As much as we were allowed outside of the compound, I don't have much experience in the world, and I can feel my confidence in being able to take care of myself diminishing. I don't have a clear path, and it leaves me vulnerable. I could end up throwing myself into the fire.

 

I sit in the kitchen for a long time, just trying to listen to my own gifts.

 

I can handle this. I'll take what I need, and then split the moment I see myself getting too deep. The fact is that I do need some form of guidance, and they can provide it for me.

 

After a while, I hear a car door slam, and a moment later Francis enters the kitchen. He takes off his glasses and leans against the counter, rubbing at his eyes. I wait for him to speak.

 

“Ingrid is taking her to the airport,” he says, sounding tired. When I don't say anything, he looks up. “Brad?”

 

I still wait a moment to speak. “I've decided,” I say. “I'm staying.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

As soon as I'm given the go-ahead, I start pulling electrodes off my scalp. Three months I've been staying at my grandparents' research facility, on and off, and they have finally managed to get a clear image of what they wanted. I never realized before how many ways my precognition manifested itself, in dreams and intuition and flashes like the strike of lightening. What we had been waiting for, and just got, was considered the truest form of precognition, the slow burn followed by a completely debilitating black out. I find it strange that, despite its potency, I can barely make out anything that happened.

 

The research center is not at all what I had imagined a place like this to be. Instead of a secluded basement, it sits on the tenth floor of a thirty story building in Manhattan. There are some twenty researchers and technicians, and a constant flow of visitors, mostly volunteers, although there is the occasional businessman that stops by to talk money. With the price some of the technology must be, I'm surprised there aren't more.

 

I make my way over to the station where a technician sits, pointing at pictures on a monitor while Francis leans over.

 

“Look at that,” the tech says.

 

“That's beautiful,” Francis responds.

 

“These patterns aren't unlike what epileptic seizures look like.” The tech frowns. “It'd be nice to get these as MRIs, though.”

 

“They'll do for today,” Francis says, then turns to me. “How're you feeling?”

 

I shrug. “Okay. I don't remember much of anything.”

 

He looks thoughtful, then shakes his head. “I'm sure there's a reason for that. Have you been feeling okay, otherwise? Sleeping alright?”

 

“Yeah, it's fine, when I take the pills. I'm exhausted without them.”

 

A couple weeks in, when it proved that I couldn't sleep more than four hours a night, I had been put on sleep aids. After a while, it became apparent that, while it helped me get enough sleep to function during the day, I didn't dream at all when taking them, and was instructed not to take them during my stays in the research lab.

 

“That's to be expected,” Francis says. “You were in a constant state of exhaustion when you came to us, I think. You just recognize it for what it is, now.”

 

I nod, slowly. There is some logic to it.

 

“Is there anything else I can take?” I ask.

 

“Let's try these for a few more weeks,” Francis says. “You won't need to come in as frequently anymore, which means you'll be able to keep a better routine. If you still need something afterward, then we can think about switching you off them.”

 

“Alright,” I say.

 

I start to gather my stuff, mostly books I brought to amuse myself, and stuff them in my bag. Behind me the door opens, and I glance around. I vaguely recognize the man as another participant in Francis' studies. He's older than me, probably mid-twenties, dark blond, and always well-dressed. He's never around for more than an hour or so, but then being the only precognitive, I'm the only one who has to wait around long.

 

I brush past, and the other man seems to suddenly rush the end of his conversation with Francis. I can hear him jogging up behind me, but I don't turn until he grabs my arm. I notice a bag over his shoulder.

 

“Hey,” he says, smiling briefly. “You going up to the gym? I'll come with you.”

 

Actually, I was going to go home to wash the gel from the EEG machine out of my hair before resuming my life of total boredom. But the gym on the top floor above the research facility is one of the few things I look foreword to, and this guy is both hot and aware of my

abilities. And then there's the debate of how to keep the ball in my court.

 

“Aren't you going to introduce yourself to me, first?” I ask.

 

He laughs and holds out his hand. “Alec Lewis.”

 

After a moment of consideration, I take it. “Brad Crawford.”

 

However, when we reach the elevator I hit the down button. Alec looks taken aback and leans against the wall next to the doors.

 

“I thought you were coming up to the gym with me,” he says.

 

“I've been here for three days,” I tell him. “I'm going home, taking a shower, and going to bed. But you are free to walk down with me if you like.”

 

He looks around for a moment, and I can see him trying to decide what to do. The doors open, and I don't wait for him to make up his mind. Suddenly his hand hits the door, and they automatically open again. I give him an impatient look, but wait nonetheless.

 

“How about coffee tomorrow?”

 

“Make it lunch and I'll consider it,” I reply. “There's a place in Yonkers I went to last weekend. Meet me at noon.”

 

I push his hand off the door, and it takes him a moment to fully respond. The door slides shut just as he's trying to ask what place I'm talking about. I don't know if anyone has figured out yet that the Shelleys are my grandparents, or that I'm living with them in Irvington. I wonder whether he'll go through the effort to figure it all out. I tell myself that I haven't decided yet if I'll blow him off.

 

As I step out into the freezing February air, I consider getting a cab to Grand Central, then change my mind. The walk will do me some good. I might have liked going up to the gym, but exercising is the one time I feel like I can really be alone to think, and I don't want to spoil that with someone else being there.

 

I keep thinking back on my life over the past few months. It bothers me that I can see exactly what's happening. They got me to agree to something small, to call my mother, and I was allowed to stay for a few days. I agreed to help provide scientific data, and I'm provided for. They're trying to build up a positive association. It's a practice I've taken part in any number of times for my parents. And now this Alec Lewis has shown up, and I'm sure he's going to offer something that he thinks I'll want. Maybe I will want it. I hate the fact that, even not knowing what it is I want out of life, my whole being knows that I need to accept the proposition he puts forth, and the only question is what else I can get out of it in the meantime. Rejecting him only means delaying the inevitable.

 

Walking through the streets of New York, I consider what it is I want, what it is that has mattered to me in my life. The only thing I can think of is freedom, the possibility of being treated like a normal person, and I'm not sure how my grandparents—and whatever they're involved in—are connected to this.

 

Another thought brushes past, a memory from a very young age. A Vision I'd had of another man. It was the man that I'd told my father about. It was how I learned not to advertise my sexuality. I drove the memory down so hard that I can barely remember anything at all about him. I know that he's younger than me, but anything else I try to dredge up just gets lost in the shuffle.

 

I realize I've come to a complete stop in front of Grand Central, and have been staring off into space. It's a good way to get mugged. As I enter the station I can feel my face burning from the cold, but there's something satisfying about it.

 

I stop to buy a newspaper, and nearly miss my train because of it, but it's an important part of my routine. Newspapers can invoke all sorts of reactions. I was told that it wasn't a good idea to do this, that it overworked my abilities, but I feel even more exhausted without it, like it's a muscle that doesn't get enough exercise. I tried to explain this to my grandparents, and when they continued to insist, I started reading the papers in secret.

 

Once again, I'm hiding part of myself.

 

\- - -

 

Ingrid returns to the house fifteen minutes after I do, a paper bag bearing groceries in her arms. I'm sitting at the island in the kitchen, and I barely glance up from my book to greet her.

 

“I hear it went well this time,” she says.

 

Instead of answering her, I say, “Who is Alec Lewis?”

 

She doesn't respond, and I finally turn my attention fully to her. Her expression says that she's trying to decide how much to tell me. She places the bag on the counter, as if it can buy her time.

 

“I think it's about time you started talking to me,” I say. “I'm not an idiot, I know that the money for this research is coming from somewhere. So? Is he a financier?”

 

“He's a stockbroker,” she says, slowly. “He is another volunteer with the program.”

 

“But?”

 

She gives a sigh and sits down. “I suppose this was going to happen sooner or later,” she says.

 

I think I'm ready for what I'm about to hear. I'm ready for Ingrid to tell me that they've been on the payroll of some major pharmaceutical company. Or taking part in insider trading. There are, in fact, any number of shady dealings that I'm fully prepared to accept.

 

What I don't expect is for Ingrid to tell me is that they are members of a secret society, which is so well hidden that most people have no idea of its existence. Not only that, but this society, which goes simply by the name Eszet, is a multinational organization, and a world power. The idea is preposterous, so much so that I want to laugh, except that the look on Ingrid's face tells me that this is far from a joke. Instead, all I can do for a moment is stare at her like an idiot, jaw dropped.

 

I wish I had seen this one coming.

 

"So", I finally say. "Alec Lewis is... what? A recruiter?”

 

"Well," Ingrid hesitates. "It doesn't really work like that. We're not talking about a cult, here. It's more like an exclusive club that you happen to qualify for.”

 

“Yeah? And how do I qualify?”

 

“By being a prescient,” she says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. “It would be highly beneficial for you to become involved, too. Eszet members go places. If Alec presents the opportunity for you to join—and I'm not saying he will—he will most likely refer you to someone else.”

 

“You mean like some sort of council member.” It still sounds an awful lot like a cult to me.

 

“More like a career adviser or a temp service,” she says, smiling slightly. “Someone who will get you in the door at a decent company.”

 

I know enough to know that if something sounds too good to be true, it probably is. There's a catch, and I want to know what that is. But then, I wonder if Ingrid or Francis know the answer to that question; the longer I get to know them, the easier they seem to control. When boiled down, their desires are fairly simple, and the requirements to achieve those desires are easy enough to fulfill, given enough money. They provide results, and they get rewarded with more funds, better equipment, an influx of subjects and data. If they begin to question, all Eszet need do is turn off the tap. Reward and punishment. So, like their daughter, they have learned not to doubt those pulling the strings, and the longer I live with them the more I see how pathetic they are.

 

I skip lunch the next day, and never do find out if Alec figures out the place I had meant to meet him.

 

He catches up to me two days later at the gym as I'm running on the treadmill. I'm in my rhythm when I become aware of someone standing in front of me, and I open my eyes to see him watching me, eyebrows raised. I sigh.

 

“I knew I should've gone to Central Park,” I say.

 

“It's awful cold out there,” he says. Then, “Why'd you turn me down?”

 

“I didn't,” I say. “Not exactly. I was curious about how persistent you are.”

 

He reaches over and hits a button on my treadmill, and I slow to a walk. At least he didn't stop the machine altogether, even though he looks like he wants to.

 

“What makes you think I'm interested?” I ask him.

 

“I'm an empath,” he says. “I know when a guy wants to fuck me. Unless you're scared of your feelings.”

 

“I know what I am,” I say. “I have no problem with that.”

 

“So what's stopping you from letting me blow you in the showers?”

 

“Do people actually do that?” I ask doubtfully. It sounds awful.

 

“More often than you'd think,” he says, laughter in his eyes.

 

“Why?” I ask. At his look of confusion, I clarify. “You just come up to me and hit on me. And before you say it's because you're an empath and know what I want, you had decided before I even considered the idea of having sex with you.”

 

His amusement grows. “Let's just say that you're my type.”

 

“I'm everyone's type,” I say. “Try again.”

 

Something shifts in his gaze, a sort of confusion underneath that laughter. He seems to be trying to think of what to say. Or maybe wondering if he should say what he's thinking. I wonder if he senses that I'm stalling, and whether he could tell when I only just realized I am doing so, myself. I'm starting to think that the doubt I'm feeling is not just about the involvement in Eszet. I've had fumbling touches with girls in the dark, but to have a man come up to me like this is a totally new experience. I come to a complete stop, and allow myself to drift backward before stepping off the treadmill.

 

“Come to lunch with me,” he finally says.

 

\- - -

 

Alec is an easy person to be around. I spend all afternoon with him, and into the evening. When he invites me back to his high rise apartment, I go with him. I know he'll try to seduce me, and I don't even give him the chance. It takes him totally off-guard, and we don't even make it to the bedroom. Instead, we end up on his hardwood floors, and I can tell he's trying to be nice to me as he shoves a lubed finger up my ass. He laughs as I try to rush him, and tells me to be patient. Now that I've committed, though, I almost just want it done.

 

I knew it would be painful, and somehow it still manages to take me by surprise. Despite this, I come embarrassingly fast, and it takes me a few minutes afterward to look him in the eye. Alec laughs quietly as he pulls the condom off and ties it, then lights a cigarette. There's little that's awkward in his demeanor, and it calms me. I roll onto my back, and he swings a leg over to straddle my hips. He rocks his hips back, and I'm getting hard again. He kisses his way down my body, and then his mouth is around my cock. I last longer this time, much to my relief. Afterward, he lays his head against my stomach and runs his hand along my torso. I realize that the whole time, he hasn't put his cigarette down, and it's burned itself out.

 

“You have a beautiful body,” he says.

 

“I know.”

 

He leans up, and gives me that confused look again, as if I'm a puzzle he can't quite solve. He reaches over me to his coffee table and puts the cigarette butt in a glass ashtray. Then he turns back to me, looking thoughtful. Only a moment passes, though, before he rolls his eyes dismissively. I'm starting to think that he sees life as a big joke, or a game. It's like he can't stop enjoying himself.

 

"You should come work with me on Wall Street," he says, suddenly.

 

It's so absurd, I can't keep from laughing. I'm not sure which part I find most hilarious; working on Wall Street at the age of eighteen with a home school education, the fact that the person asking me to do so has known me for only a day, or that the proposition is coming as we lay naked on his living room floor. Alec gives me an annoyed slap on the stomach, which just makes me laugh harder.

 

"Aw, come on,” he says. "I could use a piece of meat like you around the office.”

 

“That's one hell of a sense of humor you have there," I say, getting up stiffly. "I need to piss.” 

 

I'm sore, and it takes more effort than expected to get around. The apartment itself is big for a place in the City, and modern. Alec's taste is good, and expensive from the look of it. There's something about its Architectural Digest look, though, that I don't like. It feels like it's set up for entertaining guests. The Shelleys' house is the same. I wonder if he has any personal spaces.

 

When I return to the living room, I see that Alec has stretched out one the couch with a new smoke, and looks ready to fall asleep with it in his hand. He gives me a lazy smile as he lifts it to his mouth. 

 

"Alright,” he says, as if resigning himself. "Tell me you're legal.”

 

"Do you really care either way?” I ask. After a moment, I say,"I'm legal.”

 

"How legal? Seventeen-legal?”

 

I roll my eyes. "I turned eighteen last October.”

 

“Shit,” he laughs. “ _Shit._ I thought you were older than that. And then I decided that there is no way that a guy like you is a virgin in his mid-twenties.”

 

I feel myself recoiling, ashamed at my own ineptitude. Alec stops me, stumping out his cigarette and rising to put his arms around my waist, kissing me softly. He pulls away, grinning, and motions with his head, leading me into the bedroom.

 

It's almost two in the morning when I think about whether I should go home. I'm sure that I'll hear it from my grandparents tomorrow, no matter what I do, and I can only bring myself to care insomuch as I don't feel like wasting my time listening to them. Besides, Alec seems content to have me stay the night, running his fingertips along my torso.

 

\- - -

 

I don't have my pills with me, and that night I have vivid dreams of red hair and a vicious smile. I wake in the predawn, achingly hard. Alec is stirring beside me, his hand moving to my thigh. I can feel him smiling against my shoulder as he moves to straddle me, and I push him off and down onto the bed. He makes desperate noises as I fuck him, and afterward he seems dazed.

 

“Jesus, Brad,” he says, fumbling for his pack of smokes on the bedside table.

 

“Are you okay?” I ask, and it feels like a courtesy more than anything to do so.

 

He gives a dry laugh. “'Are you okay,' he asks.” He finally gets a cigarette lit up and rests his head in one hand. “You're just one of those guys that's good at  _everything_ , aren't you? And then you ask if you did alright after you blow my mind. Shit.”

 

Alec starts coffee, and I watch, fascinated, as he goes about his morning. The most I've ever seen Francis match is a suit, shirt and tie; my father never even went that far. For Alec, there's watches, cuff links, tiepins, pocket squares, all of which he carefully considers with his chosen outfit. I wonder how much I never learned about getting ready for the day. All the while, he chats and checks me out in the mirror as I recline on his bed, clutching my coffee cup.

 

“I was serious, you know," he says. "About you being around the office. Even interns do pretty damn well for themselves.”

 

"What, you going to hire me?” I laugh.

 

He considers me for a moment, before searching out his wallet and pulling a business card from one of the pockets. 

 

"Go to this address,” he says scribbling on the back of the card. "And ask for Robert Burke. Give it a day, so I can call ahead and let him know you're coming.”

 

I consider the card, Alec's office address and phone on one side, Robert Burke's on the other. It's almost exactly as Ingrid predicted. I wonder if it had been a conscious decision on Alec's part to use his own card, a move to give me a means of future contact. Alec interrupts the thought, kissing me long and slow. 

 

"I like you, Brad, and I do want to see you again,” he says, then straightens. "Unfortunately,' have to go to work. So it's time for you to go home, face the grandparents. By the way," he adds. “When you go see Burke, wear a suit. None of this college prep stuff you're in now.”

 

Riding the train back to Irvington, I feel as if I'm considering the same dilemmas over and over. Every time I contemplate whether I'm willing to go deeper, I seem to come to the same conclusion. I'm starting to see how powerless I actually am, though. In the end, I don't have anything of my own, just clothes that were bought for me by my grandparents and a beat up Ford that I drive to the train station three times a week. At least if I have a job, I have the opportunity to have my own money, rent my own apartment.

 

When I finally do walk into the house, wearing the same clothes I had on yesterday, Ingrid comes flying into the room. She has a desperate look on her face, and I can tell she hasn't slept much. This strikes me as odd, that she would be so worried about me.

 

"Where were you all night?" she snaps, and I'm suddenly reminded of my mother.

 

"It was late,” I say, shrugging. "So I stayed with Alec.”

 

Her expression darkens. "I know I said it wouldn't be a bad idea to be friends, but please, Brad, be careful of him. There's certain parts of his lifestyle that you shouldn't be involved in.”

 

"Worse than being part of a secret society with their claws in Wall Street?”

 

"He has certain... perversions, which I wouldn't want you to fall prey to.” When I don't respond, she sighs impatiently. "He has homosexual tendencies. And he's apparently very good at pulling people in.”

 

I'm not sure if I want to laugh or not. I imagine pushing her; there's a table behind her with a marble top, and with the right force she could trip and hit her head. She could die from such a blow. And then there would be all sort of questions, which would prove tough to answer. It's not worth the trouble. 

 

The calmness of the thought surprises me.

 

"Homosexual tendencies," I finally say. "Right. I'll be careful of those.” 

 

I've made it to the stairs when she says. "Your mother called yesterday. I told her I'd pass a message on.”

 

I stop and sigh. It just gets better and better. My mother has called several times over the past few months, despite my refusal to speak to her. I had prepared to accept the Society disappearing from my life in lieu of destroying them, and yet she just refused to let go.

 

"I don't want to hear it,” I say, and make my way up the stairs without waiting for a response.

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

Robert Burke keeps me waiting. His assistant keeps sneaking hopeful glances my way as I sit in a little chair next to the office door, and I think how she needs work on her nonchalance. On the other hand, I might be annoyed if she wasn't looking; I'd taken a credit card out of Francis' dresser and racked up over two thousands dollars on new clothes, forgoing many of the more tempting accessories in favor of having my suits fitted. And it's not just that I look expensive. I know that these clothes look good on me. I had decided the moment I looked at myself in the mirror that I'll never go back to jeans and sneakers.

 

The office door opens abruptly, and a man in his mid-to-late forties steps out. I look at him expectantly.

 

“You're Crawford?” It sounds as much like a statement as a question, and Burke doesn't wait for me to answer. “Get in here.”

 

The office is surprisingly small, smaller than the room I was waiting in, with white walls almost totally covered by filing cabinets. The furniture is expensive, though, and there's a single window looking out over Manhattan.

 

No sooner has the door closed behind me than Burke says, “It would be nice one day for Lewis to send me someone he _hasn't_ fucked.”

 

Somehow, this doesn't surprise me. Perhaps even more surprising is how little I care. By now he's settled behind his desk, and when I fail to react to his statements, he narrows his eyes at me. Seemingly satisfied by what he sees, he leans back.

 

“Although, he's definitely sent worse,” he says. “So. How old are you?”

 

“Twenty-three,” I lie.

 

“Nice try, kid,” he says, and picks up a pen to write on a pad on his desk. “You're eighteen.”

 

“Did Alec tell you?”

 

“Nope.”

 

“You're a telepath,” I say.

 

Burke stops writing suddenly, and his gaze drifts up to me. A slow smirk forms on his face, and he leans back again, hands folded over his stomach. I can tell that he's taking me a little more seriously now, and I smile back at him.

 

“You're a slippery one,” he says. “Although, would you have come to the same conclusion if I said that Lewis _had_ told me?”

 

I consider for a moment, then say, “I think so.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because Alec wouldn't have told you my age,” I say. “For one thing, he was a little freaked out, himself, when he realized how young I am. That, and he's hoping for me to be placed near him. Easy access.”

 

“You're so sure about that? Coming from a guy that I just told you is infamously promiscuous? Because normally someone like that just wants the one night stand to disappear.”

 

“If that was the case, he wouldn't have slipped me his phone number the next morning.”

 

Burke continues to study me, and I suddenly become aware of a wrongness. It's like a shadow moving around my mind, and it sends shivers up my back. I involuntarily recoil, feeling as if I'm drawing my thoughts closer inward. Burke's lips twitch. Then he sighs.

 

“So you're eighteen,” he says. “You barely have a high school education, and very little real world experience. And no real connections, outside your grandparents whom Eszet already has. I'm not sure we can do much for you.”

 

I'm feeling mildly offended, but I push the anger back. It's never conducive to rational thought.

 

“No,” I say. “I'm not highly educated. But I'm smart. I am smarter than most the people you know. And I think you're aware of it. And I'm a prescient. A _strong_ one, certainly more so than either of the Shelleys. Those two things alone can get me far. Even without that, people like me because I'm handsome.”  


Burke studies me for another few minutes, and I can tell something has changed in his demeanor. This time when I feel his shadow in my mind, I don't shrink back. When he does move, it's sudden. He rolls to the side in his chair and opens a file cabinet, pulling papers out. He pushes them across the desk to me, and then moves to another cabinet. I take the first set of papers.

 

“We can set you up as an assistant,” he says, digging. “We can't do much more without some college. That's your contract and a W-4.”

 

“What will I do?” I ask.

 

“Whatever Jake Harris—that's your boss—wants you to do,” he says, still digging through files. I can feel my heart sinking. He pauses, and says, “It's only as Hellish as your attitude. It's not exactly rocket science, but if you're as smart as you think you are, you will gain Harris' confidence. If you can do that, you will be amazed at how much control you exert over his life. Anyway, you need to fill that out and sign it. It's a pretty standard employment contract.”

 

“And he'll just accept me?” I ask doubtfully.

 

“If I tell him to,” he says. “Because he trusts my judgment.” He gives a put-upon sigh and says, "We're a repressed race, Crawford. I look forward to the day we no longer rule from the shadows.”

 

"What?” The comment feels so off, and Burke waves his hand as if he's brushing off a fly.

 

"Anyway," he says. "We'd like you to just keep an eye on Harris. Make sure he's minding his own business. We'll have you working with Lewis for the time being. He can show you the ropes.”

 

I look up at Burke, and an understanding passes between us. Jacob Harris would be my boss on paper and in the public, but in reality I would work for Eszet alone. They would invest some unspeakable amount of money in me, and in return they would essentially own me. At the same time, the rewards would probably be beyond my comprehension. I had promised myself months ago that I would back out before I got in too deep, and with my pen poised over the signature line, I know I'm in pretty damn deep.

 

Call me Faust. I sign the forms.

 

\- - -

 

Jacob Harris looks let down when he sees me, saying that when Burke said he was sending a new assistant, he had assumed that it would a woman. I want to tell him that I feel disappointed, too. Harris is in his forties and pot-bellied, and there's something vacant in his gaze. He sits in a stinking gray haze, a champion chain-smoker with an ashtray filled with butts. For all that he could be a brilliant salesman—what else is a stockbroker?—there's a good possibility he's a total idiot. It's a paradox that I'm beginning to realize is all too common, and working for him feels completely beneath me.

 

“What's your name again?” he asks.

 

“Brad Crawford.”

 

“Christ,” he mutters. "His name is fucking _Brad._ ”

 

“Is that going to be a problem?” As if the smell of this office isn't bad enough.

 

“Let me guess,” he says, lighting a new cigarette off the end of the old one. “You were the most handsome trust fund asshole in school. You were the quarterback and homecoming king, but just don't have the brains to stay in college past rush week.”

 

"How did you know?” The words are out before I can stop them, and I try to backpedal, but I'm having a hard time keeping my sarcasm in check. "I'm sorry I have a penis, but I promise I'm perfectly capable of managing your paperwork.”

 

Harris chokes on his cigarette, and I tense, waiting for the explosion. Instead, he points to the door.

 

“Go. Get that mess the last girl left organized. And Brad.” He points at me like he's scolding a disobedient child. “Next time you talk back, you're gone, Burke or no.”

 

Mess is right. I'm given a small office between Harris' and the rest of the office, and I'm convinced that the previous assistant didn't understand what the filing cabinets are for. The desk is barely visible under the piles of papers, with just enough space cleared for the computer monitor and keyboard, and the walls are stacked above my head. The most logical step seems to be to sort everything into piles and shred what isn't needed. It's slow work, made slowed by Harris calling me into his office every ten minutes or so to run for coffee or cigarettes or to schedule this appointment or that. By the time he leaves at five, pausing just long enough to sneer around his cigarette at me, I've barely made a dent.

 

“Brad?”

 

Alec pokes his head in the door. He takes one look and lets out a low whistle.

 

“Yeah, tell me about it.”

 

“I was going to ask if you wanted to come home with me,” he says.

 

“I can't,” I say, throwing a stack of financial statements down in frustration. “Burke wants me to 'gain his confidence.' Except that he hates me on principle, so if I act like I'm valuable from the start...”

 

“Shit.” Alec leans against the door, crossing his arms. “Any chance you'd be interested in a ten minute break?” he asks, raising an eyebrow and smirking in a way that makes it clear what that ten minutes would consist of.

 

I consider for a moment, then say, “You run an errand for me, and I'll give you more than ten minutes.”

 

He narrows his eyes suspiciously. “What kind of errand?”

 

“Go buy me two day planners, a sandwich, and a coffee.”

 

Alec gives a laugh and leaves. Half an hour later, he's back with a bag of food and my planners, and sits on a cleared chair in the corner, eating and watching me work.

 

“I'm still amazed that Burke you set up with me,” he says. “That asshole never gives me anything I want.”

 

I glance up from the desk. “It's not really working with you, is it?”

 

Alec shrugs, pulling a piece of corned beef from his sandwich and eating it. “It's close enough. Besides, you're in a better position of influence than I am. I have to work to get Harris to notice that I exist.”

 

“You're free to take this desk,” I say. “I'd be happy to get away from the stink. It'll never come out of my clothes.”

 

Laughing, Alec says, “Well, at least you _look_ good. Besides, most everyone on Wall Street is on _something_ most the time, so be glad it's just nicotine.”

 

“Can I ask you a question?” I ask, sitting leaning back in my chair. “What exactly are we doing here?”

 

“Making money,” Alec says, shrugging.

 

“For what? What does Eszet want?”

 

Alec gives a slow smile, and looks out into the main office area, as if he doesn't know that everyone has gone home by now. Then he leans back, and his grin widens.

 

“It's for the revolution,” he says. “It's not just about money. We shape financial empires to the way we need them. So that when the time comes we'll have total control.”

 

I look away, through the doorway and across the rows of empty desks. The only light is coming from my own space.

 

“None of this is legal, is it?” I ask. “Nothing that goes on in this office. That's why Harris accepted me so quickly, is because he needed someone that he knew would go along with it and not go running to the Feds begging for a deal.”

 

“Eszet has men inside the SEC and the FBI,” Alec says. “Not enough if something gets out, though. There's a good chance that, sooner or later, he'll go down. It needs to happen in a controlled way, though. The right people need to go down at the right time. To have a prescient in such a potentially advantageous spot...” He shakes his head. “Burke thinks he may have struck gold with you. He wouldn't let you know it, but precognition is pretty damn rare, even among psychics.”

 

Alec stands up and stretches.

 

“You ready for that break?” he asks.

 

As it turns out, his idea of a private place is our boss' office, which is one of the few with a door. He pulls me forward until he lands on his back on the desk. It's not the most pleasant places for a fuck, but it certainly serves its purpose. There's something thrilling, too, about the idea that Harris will be in here tomorrow morning, completely ignorant that his despised new assistant used his desk to fuck another man.

 

Afterward I open a window to let out some of the stink of cigarettes, sweat, and sex. My shirt is hanging open, and the cold air feels good on my skin. It becomes unbearable soon, though, and I close it again.

 

“Dear God, Brad, I swear you were made for this,” Alec groans.

 

“Why, thank you,” I say, turning to look at him.

 

He's barely moved from his position on the desk, only just now shifting to pull his trousers back up. I'm grateful to see that he hasn't lit up. We consider each other for a few minutes across the room.

 

“Did you drive here today?” he finally asks.

 

“I don't drive in the city,” I say. “It's too much of a pain.”

 

“Well,” he says. “If you get out late and decide you don't feel like making your way back to Irvington, come over to my place. I'll probably be wide awake at two in the morning, wishing there was a hot guy with me.”

 

I give a scoff, but I'm seriously considering the offer. It's suffocating with my grandparents, and if he's offering me an escape from them, I'll take him up. And it's not as if the company—or the sex—is bad. Outside, we can hear the janitor making his way through the office. By the morning, all evidence of what we did will be gone.

 

\- - -

 

Burke was right about my job not being rocket science. But it takes a meticulousness that I'm not sure many others would be capable of, a fact which I almost find myself resenting. That first night, I'm strangely glad to be an insomniac, and the next morning Harris arrives to a scrupulously neat outer office. He halts in the doorway and looks around, as if unsure that he's in the right building. He then focuses on me, as if seeing me for the first time. I stare right back.

 

“You have a meeting in an hour,” I say after a moment, holding out the corresponding file.

 

He takes it, looking dazed, then says, “Right. Thank you.” Then he continues into his office, looking like a man trying to come to terms with an epiphany.

 

Within two weeks, he relies on me to run most of his office affairs. Three nights a week, I'm with Alec, if only to have a place to go that isn't with my grandparents, and I tell Ingrid and Francis nothing about where I spend my time. They look disapproving, and Ingrid suspicious, but neither say anything about it, so long as I show up to the research center at least twice a week.

 

What Francis does do, though, is change my sleeping pills to better ones. They allow me to sleep a bit lighter, and I start dreaming again. These dreams have changed, though; in fact, my Sight has entirely. Probably because I've been focusing on work, but my Sight has shortened to within a few weeks and narrowed to specifically relate to myself and my immediate surroundings.

 

I find myself waking some mornings to an unnamed longing.

 

Burke comes into the office once a week, and I hand files with my own and Alec's notes mixed in with Harris'. He never smiles or gives praise, but I learn to recognize his approval through the nods he gives, although his words always say that he's testing me. As he talks to Harris, I can see his eyes sweeping over the office, and I can tell he's scanning with his mind. His eyes will linger now and then, and sometimes attention in the room will shift, and I can tell it's his doing.

 

We never openly speak Eszet's name again, but then we don't have to. Alec likes to talk about his plans for the future, usually late at night after we've worn ourselves out.

 

“Imagine,” he says one night. “A world run by Gifted people. And not secretly, either, but out in the open. It'll happen. Once we managed to rip down all the corrupt governments and establish the new Kingdom.”

 

We're laying on our backs, Alec's head on my chest, and he takes my hands in his. It's peaceful, and for a moment I remember visions of fiery hair. They seem so far away, and I wonder if they were wrong. I wonder if I could be happy like this.

 

“You really think this is going to happen?” I ask.

 

“It's going to happen,” he says, voice serene. “We have evolved past normal human beings. It's our right, and it's our responsibility.”

 

I run my hands through his blond hair thoughtfully. It's an argument that I've been hearing increasingly from Burke, my grandparents, anyone who knows about our abilities. That we have a moral obligation to rule over the world, to tell people who aren't what they call Gifted. A Kingdom, run by Eszet's German leaders. People don't know what's good for them. It makes more sense some times than others.

 

Right now, feeling comfortable and drowsy, it sounds fun, and I say, “What about the people who hate us for wanting each other? Do we get rid of them?”

 

He sits up and gives me a look. He's trying to figure out how serious I am. That slow smile he has forms on his face, and I wonder what conclusion he came to. He lays back down.

 

“Yeah,” he says. “Sure. Why not?”

 

It's a nice thought. Alec is openly gay, and people at work have put two and two together with us. I've heard coworkers call us disgusting. Others have loudly wondered which one of us is the man, as if we can't both be. I've been making a mental list. Sometimes I imagine following the other men, grabbing them by the back of the head and just slamming it into the wall. It makes my heart pound just to think of it.

 

_Just wait_ , I'll think.  _You'll see what happens_ .

 

Suddenly, he sits back up. “Burke gave you a fake I.D., right?”

 

“Yeah,” I say. “Why?”

 

“Get up,” he says. “We're going out.”

 

“Where?”

 

“Where the wild things are.”

 

\- - -

 

My head is pounding when I wake up the next morning. Alec is still asleep like me, and I crawl silently out of bed and get dressed without waking him. There's a diner on the corner that is just the right level of awful, where I can sprawl across a booth and nurse a cup of black coffee.

 

I know last night I saw a side Alec had been putting off showing me, and I know why. Were I anyone but myself, I might have turned tail and run at the prospect of being taken into a gay nightclub. Maybe I felt like I was being faced with a dare, or maybe it's my thirst to experience life. And I'll admit it was exciting; we were easily one of the most attractive couples in there, and men were constantly trying to lay hands on me, shoving phone numbers in my pockets. Alec was excited by the attention, and his mood was infectious.

 

Still, it's not something I would want to do constantly, and I get the impression that Alec does.

 

“Brad.”  
  


It's not till I hear my name that I realize my eyes have drifted shut. Alec slides into the booth across from me, looking nothing like how I feel. He looks around the diner doubtfully.

 

“This place sucks,” he says.

 

“I love it,” I mumble.

 

It's true. I love shitty diners, just like I love divey bars. They're unpretentious. You know exactly the level of food you'll be served, usually by a surly waitress, and you're not paying for anything better. You certainly aren't going to get someone who pretends too hard to be nice to you for the sake of tips. But I also know that Alec hates these places. I suppose he just doesn't get it.

 

Sure enough, he says, “We have got to get you accustomed to higher quality food.”

 

I give a sigh and ask, “How did you find me?”

 

“You have a unique emotional signature. I, uh...” he pauses, as if embarrassed. “I was worried that you were regretting last night.”

 

“No,” I say, shaking my head at my coffee. “I just need some time to think.”

 

It's something I haven't had enough of, lately. I'm working ten to twelve hour days during the week, and when I'm not there, there's always someone around, be it Alec, Burke, or my grandparents. My mother has even managed to take over some of my precious time with her increasingly desperate attempts to get in touch with me, despite my efforts to erase her existence from my being. It's becoming imperative that I find a way to afford my own place, so that I can at least find some quiet.

 

Alec nods. “I understand. It's a lot to process.”

 

I don't think it's necessarily a good idea to tell him that what I need to consider is the direction of my life. Between the past I want to forget and the future I only trust to myself, all I can give Alec is right here and now. And I do trust him sexually and intellectually, but never emotionally, despite his empathy, and never where Eszet is concerned. Not when he's the one who brought me into the fold.

 

So I let him believe that my issues lie with his lifestyle. If I thought about it, knew that Alec parties hard, even before Burke made a comment in that direction, and I'm not entirely sure how I feel about it. However, I'm not as worried about it as I perhaps should be. I think sooner or later, he'll find a new boy to play with, and I'll fade from the picture, and that doesn't upset me, either, even though it probably should.

 

It feels like an age before Alec leaves me with my coffee, but in reality it's only a few minutes. I look outside, where the gray skies have given way to rain, which in turn has started melting the snow. It's turning into a slushy mess. It strikes me how time is starting to get away from me, and I'm shocked. My life used to creep by, days stretching forever until the day I left home. Now I can't seem to fit everything in the time I have.

 

And worst, I've been letting go of control over my future. It's too easy to just go along. I had wanted a normal life, and regardless of my involvement in Eszet, it occurs to me that this is how normal people live. Every day, they get up, go to work, go on a date—if that's what you can call what Alec and I have been doing—go to bed. They dream about what they want, but it never becomes anything more. I know now, without a shadow of a doubt, that it's not what I want.

 

Growing up, new faces within the Society had almost invariably been young, and I understand now why that was. I remember the Prophet telling us that the Society gives direction to those without. When I left, I went without a plan, without any real idea what direction I wanted my life to go, other than the vague notion of  _not this_ . 

 

I could move on again, this time in a more organized way. Leaving the Society had been a sudden decision, despite my long desire to go. This wouldn't be. For one thing, I would have the chance to make the money needed to live. I could take time to learn how the system works so that I can move outside it. And, maybe most important, how to cut any loose ends.

 

I need to bury these ideas deep, hide what I can in with my work. In every direction Burke has given me, there has been a clear message: no one leaves Eszet. I don't know what happens to those who try, and I know that I'm getting only a small picture of how far Eszet's reach is. I can't let Burke get even the smallest hint that I'm thinking that I can cut and run.

 

For the first time I realize just how little privacy I actually have; at this point, my thoughts and feelings aren't even mine alone. The Prophet had been able to convince everyone that of his own omniscience within the Society, mostly through spies and, appallingly enough, cameras in most rooms, and was able to pressure members into confessing sins that he hadn't been aware of. But it had never been like here, where there's always someone who knows what I'm thinking and feeling.

 

It's a terrifying decision, to consciously change my own thought patterns in order to hide what I truly want. I know that it'll change who I am, whether I like it or not. It's something I'm accepting, though, and all I can do is hope that I don't lose myself in the process.

 


	5. Chapter 5

It's not easy making a person totally dependent. Like a magician, I have to make it look totally effortless to be effective. And like any great illusion, it takes a lot of work which is much less glamorous than it initially appears, mostly involving a tight control over the flow of information.

 

I have my two planners; one is totally open to my boss, as well as Alec and Burke, containing appointments and social events. The other is tightly sealed. Inside, I have recorded all my Visions on approximate dates that they will take place, as well as minor happenings connected to the firm. None of them seem significant—a person is hired in, another leaves, profits are made and lost—but I know that not much happens there that doesn't have Eszet's hand, and I need to know how.

 

It's still not enough. I need to appear omniscient, which means knowing everyone I meet, and not just their names and faces. I know spouses, girlfriends, boyfriends, kids, lovers. As for Harris himself, I commit every detail to memory. Everything from birthdays and favorite restaurants to his social security and bank account numbers.

 

The idea is to build trust while simultaneously training him to look to me for any answer he needs and discounting everyone else.

 

Even more, I fix problems. No one knows they exist before I solve them, although I make it very clear that I have done so, with some exception made for Burke, who has the connections to make people go away. It's not something I like doing, though; it means that I'm reliant on another person, and it's often touch-and-go on how neatly the job is done.

 

“You know,” I say to Burke one day. “I would prefer to have a personal relationship with the person taking care of these problems.”

 

We're sitting in his office, and I swear the stacks of files around his desk has gotten bigger. Burke is looking through a report I've just handed him, and he replies without even looking up.

 

“We give contact between assassins and the person giving the orders,” he says.

 

“Why?”

 

“Because,” he says, glancing up. “It provides a connection. They're mercenaries, which means they're capable of being bought. It's better if they don't know why they're getting rid of someone.”

 

“And an organization like Eszet is incapable of finding someone who isn't in it for the money.”

 

Burke hears the dare in my voice and faces it head on. “You don't want to deal with those people.”

 

“I already do.” I'm not sure what Alec is in this for, if not his glorious revolution.

 

“Lewis is a lightweight,” Burke says. “He has all the emotional maturity of a sixteen-year-old. The people you are asking to meet are out of his league.”

 

 _So am I_. It's a stray thought, one that has been creeping up on me with increasing frequency when I'm on my own. I know the moment I think it that Burke has heard it, too. He doesn't flinch, though, just keeps looking me directly in the eye.

 

_I would rather hand you a gun and let you do it yourself_ .

 

As much as I was aware of his capability to communicate telepathically, it's the first time I've ever experienced it. It's unnerving, but I don't allow myself to look away. I know a test when I see one.

 

_Then stop fucking around and do it._

 

I don't expect the _No_ to come as fast as it does, nor to be as disappointed as I am.

 

"You're shaping up to be a Hell of a fixer, Crawford,” Burke says. "You may even become a decent con, now that you're learning to fake liking those you hate. But you need to finish a project before you're given anything else. Learn what you can about stocks and banks and buying elections from that overgrown child we've partnered you with. Maybe you can teach him how to stomach the dirty work while you're at it.”

 

“Don't ask me to work miracles.”

 

He laughs at that, and I think Alec was right when he said that Burke doesn't like him much. Sometimes I wonder if Burke may have a point.

 

“We're going to have you stick with Harris,” Burke says. “Keep him out of trouble.”

 

“There's only so much I can do,” I say. “He doesn't have long.”

 

Burke gets a deadly serious look on his face and forward in his chair. “How long?”

 

I don't think too hard about my answer. “The way things are going, a year. Maybe two, tops.”

 

Burke's eyes narrow, and I can feel that shadow passing in my mind. I've spent a long time training myself to know that an event can be true if I manipulate it to be so, and then boiling those thoughts down to a simple _it will happen_. That is what Burke sees in my mind now.

 

“I'll make you a deal,” he says. “Get us through this smoothly, and I'll provide you with contacts to our mercenaries. Make us a profit—a _real_ profit—and keep Harris from talking, and I will not only have you trained as a professional fixer, but I will pair you with the most psychotic assassin we have.”

 

\- - -

 

“Burke is letting you take the lead on this?” Alec asks doubtfully. “He thinks you're up to it?”

 

We're sitting over dinner at one of his fancy restaurants with an upper floor patio overlooking the street. Mid-June, and it's already looking to be an especially hot summer. Both of us are dressed for work, although we've given in and rolled up our sleeves and loosened our ties. We've been called to a meeting at Eszet's building, and having been given little clue as to the nature of it, both of us want to be straight on where we are before we get there.

 

“It's like the stock market,” I say. “He's placing a bet that I can, but I'm sure he's ready to let me crash and burn.”

 

“If you crash and burn, though, that'll be the end of you,” Alec says, then gives a sigh. “So, do you know how you want to run this?”

 

“You know how insider trading works,” I say.

 

“It's easy to get caught with insider trading,” Alec says sternly.

 

“If you're making a lot of money,” I say. “First of all, it's more of a confidence trick than insider trading. And the way you get caught with insider trading is if the person giving the advice actually is an insider. If the Feds can't figure out how we know which way the stocks go, there's no way to indict.”

 

“You're talking about predicting stock prices.” He sounds disbelieving, like I wouldn't dare.

 

“I hate that word. It's _Seeing_ more than mere predicting.” I look around, but no one is listening. Of course they aren't, we're in New York. “What will happen is that you continue winning and losing. However, you will buy or sell whatever stocks I tell you. They won't be big wins, for the most part. The point is that people see that, for whatever reason, I'm consistently right about which direction the market will take.”

 

“Herd mentality?”

 

“Mm.” I wonder how long until he starts to catch on to what I'm saying. Alec spends all day selling stocks that don't exist, so he should see the direction I'm going. “In the meantime, Eszet is going to set up a dummy corporation, which you'll invest in. It won't do much at first, but you'll hang in there. Others, when they see how well you do on my advice, will do the same.”

 

“Wait,” Alec says, suddenly. “You're talking about _creating_ a stock market bubble. Except that it doesn't exist, and you always have some sort of endgame. And you're talking about crashing the stock market.”

 

“Only a little.”

 

“So, what, we pull out at the last minute?”

 

I shake my head. “Absolutely not. The only way you get away with this is if the marks don't know it happened at all.”

 

“It's not worth it if we lose with everyone else,” Alec says, angrily.

 

I give an impatient sigh. “We aren't _going_ to lose, because Eszet is the promoter. There are accounts being set up in Switzerland for us.”

 

“How much?”

 

“Depends on how much we sell,” I say. “We're talking percentages.”

 

“You're going to be watched,” he says.

 

“And all anyone will see is an eighteen-year-old living a boring existence. Going home, going to the gym, visiting his grandparents.”

 

“So no more hot, gay sex,” Alec says, looking bitter. Because, of course, it all comes down to how often he gets laid.

 

“It certainly means no more underage drinking at gay bars,” I say, impatience once again creeping in.

 

Underneath, though, is a touch of relief. It had been fun at first, being wanted, but the novelty of clubs wore off quickly, and now the thought of going out every night is exhausting. This is not the mention the constant stream of men in Alec's bed. I hate that he knows when I'm annoyed, and I hate that he knows what to say and do to placate me.

 

“Market bubbles can be created without risk to yourself,” Alec says.

 

“This is faster,” I say. “We're talking months as opposed to years. Besides, the longer I control Harris' life, the greater the risk of him seeing through me.”

 

Something dark passes behind Alec's gaze, and I find myself almost wishing I were a telepath, rather than a prescient. Lately I've been spending a whole lot of time waiting to See anything beyond the mundane, and I feel like I'm losing my mind. Meanwhile, Alec is good at keeping secrets, but bad at hiding his emotions. If I ask, I'll get some hollow answer, and there's no getting anything else.

 

"Don't worry, " he says. "We'll get there. Just be patient.”

 

"Don't do that,” I say.

 

"Do what?”

 

Don't tell me to be patient when you know nothing about waiting. Don't tell me how I feel, like you truly know me. Don't pacify me.

 

A wave of calm washes over me, and I can feel my own annoyance pushing back. And that's when I realize what he's been doing.

 

"Do _not_ change my emotions.”

 

Alec flinches at the quiet anger in my voice. I am calm now, but I recognize it as my own; it's the kind that comes with cold fury, and Alec is leaning away like he wants to run. He's never seen this side of me, maybe never would have.

 

"Hey, Brad, "he says, laughing anxiously. "I'm sorry. It wasn't intentional. It isn't, always.”

 

I take a deep breath and close my eyes. My nerves are raw from work and the state of semi-Blindness I've found myself in.

 

I think about the tiny studio apartment I've finally managed to afford, despite pressure from Alec to move in with him, the piles of information I've accumulated, the web I've created on the wall over my table. Alec refuses to spend the night there—usually he won't even walk up the stairs to the place—and it suits me just fine. Sometimes, when I'm alone there, and lay very still and quietly, I can feel the world turning, although I can't make out the direction. What we're embarking on is a Ponzi scheme, simple and stupid and disconcertingly effective, and I'm not convinced it even matters because the universe is moving in an unexpected direction. It's a shell of a plan, meant to look like I'm doing something while I decide what action to take.

 

We walk to Eszet's high-rise in silence, neither of us sure what is next. Occasionally the back of Alec's hand brushes against mine, and I'm sure it's intentional, perhaps as another hollow apology for upsetting me, to remind me of some connection he thinks we share.

 

Once in the elevator, Alec hits the button for the top floor, and I realize that the three other people in there with us are going to the same place. Alec and I exchange a look, he he tilts his head thoughtfully.

 

“I'm not sure I've ever been to the top, other than to use the gym,” he says. “It's executive offices in the other half. Not sure they even know who half of us are.”

 

“I'm not so sure about that,” I say, looking up at the lights for the floor numbers. If I were running an organization like this, I would know the name and ability of every psychic at my disposal.

 

On the top floor, there are two directions to take; the first is through the glass doors into the gym. The second is around a corner, through heavy, unmarked wooden doors. When we pass through this second set, I'm amazed at the size and luxury within. There are glass walls looking into a small patio courtyard, a dining suite with clean white linens and stemware. The floors are marble, the sofas leather, the light fixtures crystal. Alec gives a low whistle.

 

“Pass some of this money our way, why don't you,” he says quietly, although from the look of his Manhattan apartment, I'm not sure he really needs it.

 

The conference room we enter is big, with a table long enough for at least thirty people. Every seat is taken. I can feel Alec's tension as we find a spot along the wall. Ingrid and Francis are seated at the table, and we share a slight nod; they've been annoyed with me lately for being a bit lax about taking my sleeping pills. And I skipped their Memorial Day barbeque, which apparently weakened the neighbors' illusions of a happy family.

 

Alec is leaning over another man's shoulder, taking quietly. I notice the way his hand is resting on the back of his chair, thumb brushing against the nape of his neck. The knowledge that I am replacement rankles, even more that I will be replaced in turn. The man he's talking to glances back when Alec rejoins me, and there's something like scorn in his gaze.

 

"See that woman at the head of the table?" Alec murmurs. "That's Gabrielle Poulin. She's the head of the New York division--she's our fucking boss' boss.” It's surprising; the woman at the head of the table is maybe in her mid-thirties. Perhaps sensing my doubt, Alec says, "Supposedly she was hand chosen. Sent over from France. She's some sort of clairvoyant or something.”

 

"You don't know?" I ask, not taking my eyes off her.

 

"I've never meet her,” Alec says. "We're not important enough.”

 

"Then why are we here?”

 

Alec's gaze is hard, and there's something almost mocking behind it when he says, "You tell me.”

 

I want to, and that look on his face is like being stabbed in the gut, like being told I'm useless. I could kick-start my precognition. I haven't used narcotics to enhance my abilities since I arrived in New York, lest I become dependent or I overdose, or any other legitimate fear. But I could; any number of people on Wall Street spend half their lives snorting cocaine, and it would be easy enough to access.

 

My train of thought is interrupted as Gabrielle Poulin stands, smoothing her pencil skirt and straightening her blazer. She's beautiful, although I get the impression she's fighting age. She takes a deep, shuddering breath, and I feel myself fighting to keep my expression straight.

 

"Ladies and gentlemen." she starts. "Thank you for coming. By now, everyone should be aware of events in Europe. Last November, the Soviet Union lost control of East Germany. This year, Moscow already lost five Republics. In November, Armenia will also secede. By the end of next year, the Soviet Union will have dissolved.” She pauses to take another breath, and I wonder at her concern over the communists. "Our leaders have assured me that there is no need for concern, but in the meantime there are necessary precautions that must be taken. We have a number of research facilities that have operated for many years unchecked, but which must now be evacuated.”

 

It's suddenly clear to me what is happening. If Eszet has been running unrestricted research in Soviet facilities, then the fall of the communist state would bring to light a whole load of ugly truths, ones Eszet desperately wants to keep secret. The United States is probably one of the best places to hide a large number of foreigners, either as ex-patriots or fugitives. Spread them thinly and smartly enough, and it won't be questioned at all.

 

It strikes me that every person here probably has psychic leanings to be told this. I sweep the room with my gaze. Outwardly, there is nothing that would connect anyone.

 

"We need volunteers to house our younger evacuees," she continues.

 

Ingrid is one of the first to raise her hand; they have four spare rooms. Other names are passed around. When someone brings up Alec's spare room, he laughs.

 

"No way. I'm not a fucking babysitter.”

 

"That's not what I heard.”

 

There's a scattering of laughter, and Alec throws up his middle finger. I say nothing, and refuse to meet anyone's gaze.

 

"Our grandson can take someone,” Francis says, and the suggestion winds me.

 

"I live in a one-room apartment.”

 

"Eszet will provide larger accommodations for your trouble," Poulin says, as if it were obvious. "A two bedroom flat. Which you will retain after your guest's transfer.”

 

There's silence, and it takes me only a momentary consideration to agree. The deal is too good to pass up. Alec smacks my arm, as if he expected me to decide different, and I give him a shrug. And now it seems that people can't sign up fast enough. Some are granted the offer, others not, and I wonder where even Eszet can come up with the resources to give away free apartments in the City. This isn't the movies.

 

Alec spends the rest of the meeting moping, his arms crossed and lips pursed childishly. On the way out, he pulls me aside into the restroom, pushing me up against the counter and pressing a leg between my knees.

 

“Congratulations,” he says, face close to mine. “You've possibly just killed our sex life.”

 

“In what way?” I laugh. It's like he's trying to show me what I'll be missing.  
  


“You realize that with a kid in your place, we won't be able to have sex. And you can't leave them alone all night.”

 

It's like my neck is following the roll of my eyes, and I look up at the ceiling. Alec is a couple inches shorter than me, a fact that is not working to his advantage in his current older-and-wiser attempts. I look back down at him.

 

“That's not true,” I say. “And you know it. Besides, since when have you been adverse to finding alternative venues to have sex.”

 

My hands make my way under his jacket, and he reaches back to grab my wrists. As soon as my mouth makes it to his neck, though, I've made my point; he starts to melt under my touch. He grabs my own jacket and pulls me backward into a stall, and I have to cover his mouth to keep him quiet. Afterward, he's quiet but resigned, and when I meet his gaze in the mirror, he rolls his eyes and smiles.

 

As soon as I open the restroom door, I see Ingrid standing against the far wall. Her gaze is cold and knowing. I only look back at her defiantly, and she shakes her head and walks off without a word.

 

\- - -

 

The girl that is assigned to live with me, Lena, is only two years younger, and could be my sister; if anyone asks, she is. There's irony in that thought, as I have six half-sisters, and none of them look anything like me.

 

The move to my new apartment is coordinated with Lena's arrival, and as the taxi pulls up there are movers bringing furniture upstairs. None of it is from my old place, and I have the feeling that it was decided that everything needed to match in taste—my clothes to my apartment to my job. Which means out with my mattress on the floor and used sofa and in with the leather recliner and glass coffee table. All I'm bringing are a few file boxes and a suit bag, which I pull out of the trunk. Lena has even less.

 

“Don't talk to the neighbors,” I tell Lena, handing her a box.

 

“I am sorry?” she says. “I am not quiet little girl hanging on shoulder.”

 

“I don't care if you scream and cry,” I say. “Just don't let the old lady next door hear that Borscht.”

 

Her glare could cut diamonds, and I know I'm in for some fun with her. I suppose that it will be less suspicious also to hear us fighting if we're siblings. At the very least, the cops are less likely to be called. Siblings are supposed to fight. Not that I ever really did with mine.

 

The movers at least went so far as to put the beds and dressers in the bedrooms, but the rest is more or less piled in the middle of the main room. I'm surprised at the size of the place. I wonder again at the amount of money Eszet is pouring out.

 

“You are not really prescient, are you?” Lena asks.

 

“Huh?” I look at her as she dumps the box she's carrying on the sofa and flips her dark hair back. “Yes, I am.”

 

“I was promised role model,” she says, daring me with her eyes.

 

“I don't know what you were promised,” I say. “I was promised a larger apartment, so at least one of us is getting what we want.”

 

Suddenly she's up against me, and for a moment I don't know what to do. I almost wonder if this girl is actually sixteen. She's a little too familiar with taking off ties, with the way to rub her leg between mine. I grab her shoulders and push her back. She looks confused and offended.

 

“I thought...” she said. “I was told...”

 

“What?” I ask. “That I would expect you to sleep with me?”

 

She looks flustered and embarrassed, and suddenly very much her age. I hope that my grandparents weren't the ones to put her up to this. They're both very aware now that I've been fucking Alec on a regular basis, but somehow I wouldn't put it past Ingrid to try to convert me back. Lena should certainly be pretty enough to do so.

 

“What is wrong?” she asks, and suddenly her bravado is back. I wonder if it's false. “Are you not real man?” She pushes forward and her hand strokes me through my pants. “You feel like real man.”

 

I grab her wrist and wrench it up. “I'm not a total barbarian,” I say, pushing her away. “Go put your room the way you want it.”

 

She gives me a look of pure venom and grabs her bag, storming off. I rip my glasses off and rub my face in frustration. I'm feeling as offended as she is, although for a totally different reason. My father likes his child-brides. That's what my mother was, after all. By that logic, my grandparents must seem to think that I could be tempted the same way, and somehow that's more acceptable than wanting a man.

 

I'm only eighteen, though, and how did I forget that? Lena is within a perfectly acceptable age-range for me. Sometimes I feel so much older. I wonder if Lena feels the same way. I wonder if I should go talk to her, but I'm not sure what I'd say.

 

 _I'm fucked up, you're fucked up, just like this whole damn world._ We're born that way. We see and hear and know things younger than anyone should, just by the nature of our precognition, and there's nothing to be done about it. And it's lonely.

 

Some role model I am.

 

I stand outside her closed door for a moment, and consider knocking. But there's nothing to be said. Nothing would ever be enough, not right now. So instead, I turn and leave.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, it's been a long time. I've been trying to bridge a gap, and there are things that I didn't expect to write in order to do so. I have to open more plots in order to close all of them, which means that this'll probably be longer than expected. Oops.


End file.
